Blue is her favorite color.

Grey-blue is the color of my Father’s eyes. They have a mood more than a color.

His eyes are the ocean as a storm rolls in; sad, lonely, dramatic and full of stories.

My parents have ugly, nubby-blue dining room carpet that always looks dirty. My Father resists changing it.

Blue is the color of her sweater. It’s the one reportedly stolen by a nurse. I find it at the bottom of her closet in a pile of dirty clothes.

“Did you look in the closet?” She responds as if reminiscing, “Why would I look for something when I don’t know where it is?”

Navy blue is the color of the fuzzy blanket I bought her nursing home bed because she is always cold. She has shrunken down to a small bag of misshapen bones and white hair.

The house I grew up in was always freezing. She turned the heat down and opened the windows in all seasons “to feel the fresh air so she wouldn’t suffocate.”

I don’t wear a lot of blue. It is not a color that looks good on me or so she has told me.

Blue suppresses your appetite. There are not many foods that are blue, so our brains tell us to stop eating. Now you’re trying to think of blue food.

I have Murano blue kitchen glasses that give me pause whenever I drink out of them. I wonder if I stop because I remember they are blue, or my brain is reacting independently to the color.

Bright blue is a douchey car color. I don’t even like riding in one. It’s an embarrassingly obvious color that makes me uncomfortable like the increasing complexity of my coffee order.

Blue is the child of two parent colors: green and magenta.

Whenever someone tells me their favorite color is blue, I think of her.

Classic Blue is the “color of the year” for 2020.

Perhaps this will be her year.